The gallery hummed with a low murmur of voices and the soft shuffle of footsteps. Quinn’s walking poles tapped lightly against the polished floor, each sound deliberate, each step precise. She moved between exhibits at her own pace, pausing when something caught her attention.
The pieces invited her in, but what fascinated her most wasn’t just the art—it was the space itself. The way the rooms flowed into each other. The way movement and perception shifted with every turn.
One weekend, she attended an exhibition on perception, designed to challenge ordinary ways of seeing and navigating. Among the installations, one caught her attention: The Shifting Maze.
The maze was a carefully constructed labyrinth, designed to disrupt the familiar sense of footing and balance Its pathways tilted and dipped unpredictably, with sloped floors that forced visitors to engage their weight with every step.
Low beams and narrow turns required careful maneuvering, while subtle shifts in texture underfoot added another layer of disorientation. The exhibit seemed less like a test of skill and more like a negotiation between the body and the space—a reminder that movement was rarely as straightforward as it seemed.
Unlike the stillness of the surrounding galleries, the maze demanded motion, precision, and focus. Visitors navigated it in their own ways—some laughing as they stumbled, others moving carefully, with hands brushing the walls for balance. For Quinn, it was something more—a quiet opportunity to tune into the rhythm of her thoughts and movements, to adapt and engage on her own terms.
She stopped at the maze’s entrance. b Her walking poles often drew glances in public spaces, and today was no different. She caught the flicker of a stranger’s eyes—a brief moment of curiosity followed by a careful look away. It wasn’t unkind, just familiar. A subtle reminder of how her presence often carried an unspoken question.
Quinn adjusted her grip on the poles, pausing at the entrance. Skipping the maze would have been easy—no one would have questioned her choice. This experience wasn’t about meeting expectations or proving anything. It was curiosity that drew her in, a quiet invitation she felt compelled to accept.
She stepped forward.
The ground tilted almost immediately, the incline catching her off guard. Her knees wobbled for a moment before she adjusted, planting her poles firmly to steady herself. The movements were small, deliberate. She paused, exhaled, and let her body respond to the floor’s shifting demands.
A few steps later, a low beam cut across the path. Quinn stopped to assess the space, angling her shoulders and adjusting her poles to fit through the narrow passage. The effort demanded focus, yet it felt deliberate—a measured response, practiced and steady, to the challenges in her path.
Each turn of the maze absorbed her completely. The uneven terrain demanded focus, not just on where to step but on how she moved through the space. She felt the pull in her calves, the subtle strain in her shoulders, the rhythm of her poles tapping against the ground. The maze didn’t frustrate her; it drew her in.
It reminded her of her favorite paintings—layered canvases in deep blues and muted grays, where light and shadow blended into something whole. The beauty wasn’t in erasing the difficulty but in moving through it, letting it exist without apology.
“Do you need help?”
The voice startled her, pulling her out of her focus. She looked up to see an older man standing a few feet away. His expression was kind but uncertain, his hands hovering at his sides as if unsure whether to reach out.
“No, thank you,” Quinn said, her tone calm but firm. She adjusted her grip on the poles and shifted her stance, steadying herself.
The man lingered for a moment, his gaze flicking between her and her poles. Then he nodded, muttering something about being careful, and walked away. Quinn exhaled, the interruption leaving behind a familiar weight.
The offer wasn’t unwelcome on its own—but the presumption within it was. Moments like these carried an unspoken weight, a narrative of fragility and limitation she knew too well.
As Aubrecht (2020) notes, disability is often framed through a lens of vulnerability or dependence, ignoring the complexity of individual experiences. For Quinn, these moments felt like uneven terrain—manageable, but requiring energy she’d rather use elsewhere.
She let the thought drift and returned her focus to the maze. The uneven path ahead drew her in again. Each step asked her to adjust and adapt, but none of it felt unnatural. By the time she reached the exit, her muscles ached, but it wasn’t fatigue she felt. Nor was it triumph. It was something quieter—a sense of satisfaction, not just from completing the maze but from experiencing it on her own terms.
The maze hadn’t been an obstacle to overcome. It had been a reminder: that balance wasn’t about mastery but about attention, about adapting to what lay ahead. Each shift in the ground, each careful adjustment, had called her to notice not only where she moved, but how.
The polished floor beneath her feet felt solid again, but her steps carried the memory of the maze—not as a lingering challenge, but as a quiet rhythm she had made her own.
The unseen exhibits stretched out before her, their spaces open and inviting. She moved forward at an unhurried pace, each step a quiet reminder that balance could be found in many ways, each path hers to claim.
References
- Aubrecht, K. (2020). The cultures of precarity: Disability, care, and justice. Routledge.
- Dolmage, J. T. (2017). Academic ableism: Disability and higher education. University of Michigan Press.
- Titchkosky, T. (2015). The question of access: Disability, space, meaning. University of Toronto Press.
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